


"I'm fine."

by venea_taur



Category: Star Trek: Picard
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venea_taur/pseuds/venea_taur
Summary: Rios is drinking away his worries when his feet move quicker than his mind. Thankfully, a woman comes to his rescue when he finds himself outnumbered. (pre-series and spoilers for the first season)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	"I'm fine."

It’s afternoon but early enough that he knows he shouldn’t be drunk. Still, he doesn’t care. It’s why he chose this bar, too. No one here’s going to know him or judge him for his choices. Hell, most of the other patrons are just as drunk as him. There’s a handful in groups sitting around at various tables, drinking and talking, socializing. He grimaces at that thought.

The bar is quickly becoming his go-to place and the staff is getting to know him. They don’t talk to him; they learned that in his first few days there. Instead, they bring him a new drink when his goes empty and add it to his tab while he lightly grunts a thanks. It’s really the most communication he’s willing to put forth lately, especially with strangers. He’s been out of Starfleet for a month, discharged for post-traumatic dysphoria. Psychiatric appointments didn’t help and he refused medication after it meant he would be taken off of active duty for the duration. It doesn’t matter that it was an honorable discharge, he finds it all dishonorable from his actions to theirs. He’s ignored the calls from friends and messages recommending that he seek professional help. Starfleet has no control over him now and the friends he has remining never seemed to understand that it wasn’t just something he could ignore and think out of his life. He doesn’t like it himself but it’s consuming him, eating at him. Alcohol helps even though he knows he shouldn’t be drinking now. He’s had the lectures, he knows this is a dangerous path but, honestly, his options seemed limited. Who could he trust to help him? Who would? Did he even deserve it? He forced his own captain, his mentor, to kill himself. That should’ve been a murder charge but instead he was rewarded, as if that would keep him quiet. As the months passed, he sunk lower, hiding it as he could but he was found out, put on leave and ordered into counseling. It didn’t help the listlessness, the sinking, aching pit in his stomach, the apathy. Those only grew until even he had to admit that he was broken and of no use to Starfleet anymore.

Alcohol is a bad idea but he feels better and no one bothers him. He has a small apartment paid for by the little he receives from his Starfleet retirement pension and a disability program for veterans. It’s not much but what does he care as long as he has a place to stay and money to buy food and alcohol.

It comes as a surprise to him when he feels anger at the rowdy young men sitting a few tables away, making disparaging comments about Starfleet. He moves before his mind can advise him that this is a bad idea in his drunken condition. As little as he cares about Starfleet, there are good officers who serve with a genuine interest in the original aims of Starfleet that doesn’t deserve to be maligned as these men are.

Most of what he remembers of the ensuing fight is being on the losing side of the drunken brawl. He knows he threw the first punch and told them something to the effect that they shouldn’t go after people who at least had the guts to try to do something to change the quadrant instead of sitting here getting drunk talking shit. Some of it might have not been in English either; language blurs when he’s drunk because the words get slippery. The rest is murky due to a combination of alcohol, anger, and a medium grade concussion.

It’s a woman who saves him. She ends the fight with a short series of well-aimed kicks and punches. It also helps that she is decidedly less drunk than any of them and mentions something about calling the police for disturbing the peace. He’s woozy with pain and alcohol as she pulls him upright, throws some money at the bar owner for the damages and to keep quiet about the brawl, and drags him from the bar.

“Do you have a place nearby?” She’s pulled him into an alley, easing him down so he’s sitting on some crates he thinks and can lean against the brick wall. Sitting feels good and the cool brick eases his aching head some. She speaks clearly, looking directly at him and he finds himself unable to tear himself away from her gentle eyes. He mumbles an address that even he can’t understand. She shakes her head and sighs at him. He doesn’t like that look of frustration. In the end, he pulls out his ID card and she quickly calls a taxi.

He thinks that will be the end of it. She’ll stick him in the cab and send him on his way home, but she climbs in after him. At the moment, growing nausea as the vehicle takes off wins out over curiosity and he opts to lean his head against the cool window, closing his eyes to block out the streets passing too quickly by outside for him.

“Come on.” She nudges him to move. The taxi has come to a stop outside his apartment complex. Clumsily and with a loud groan, he fishes around for his card, knowing absently that he must pay for the ride.

“I got it,” the woman says with an exasperated look. “Now, let’s go while you’re still somewhat mobile. I’m strong but I don’t like the idea of carrying you around.”

“I’m fine,” he says as he follows her out of the car. He knows it looks as uncoordinated as he feels. His limbs are heavy and his body aches. He’d lay down on the back seat if he could, but she continues to nudge him along.

“Yeah, right. Tell me something else, Pinocchio.”

As if to prove her right, he stumbles out of the car, his foot catching on the bottom of the door opening. It’s only because of her that he doesn’t fall face first. Still, he whacks his knees on the pavement and jars his aching ribs and head. The pain makes his stomach churn worse and before he quite realizes, he’s bringing up what’s in his stomach. He regrets that it’s all alcohol; he really should’ve eaten something even though food has little appeal lately.

She helps him to his feet when he’s done and steadies him as he sways under the sudden movement. He swallows as his stomach churns again.

“You good,” she asks.

“Yeah.” He’s breathless as he swallows. His stomach is still unsettled but he doesn’t want to throw up again.

“Okay. Let’s get going then. The sooner we’re up there, the sooner you can rest.”

“You… you don’t have to do this, you know. I can make it up there by myself.”

“Yeah, sure you can. Now, let’s go.”

Fortunately, the lift in his building isn’t broken today. It is, however, occupied by two teenage girls and their father, who gives him a questioning look. Rios tries to stand up straighter, not lean on the woman so much, and put on a friendlier face. It’s not easy given how he feels, but he doesn’t appreciate the look and the last thing he wants is being threatened with eviction because someone thinks he’s dangerous. He’s not, at least not to anyone other than himself. Still, he manages what he hopes is a less suspect appearance until the girls and their dad get off, which is just one floor before his.

Just outside his door, he stops.

“Hold on a second,” he says, breathing through the pain. The short walk from the elevator was hard and even though he needs her to stand up, he pushes himself off her, leaning against the wall to keep himself from collapsing. She lets out a light squawk, moving quickly to grab him but he puts his hands up to stop her and locks his knees.

“What?” She crosses her arms, fixing him with a look of mild irritation.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“This isn’t some kind of hook-up, Rios.”

“I know but…”

She sighs and cocks her head slightly, her irritation turning to questioning. Then she sighs.

“Okay. I guess that’s fair. Raffi,” she says.

“Raffi? Just Raffi?”

“No, but you’re not getting the rest of it.”

“Okay.” He nods, seeing the reasoning she has.

“Good. Now, do you mind if we go in? I don’t want to have to drag you across the threshold. You already made quite the appearance in the elevator. Do you want to add to it?”

“I’m fine,” he says as his knees finally give up the ship. Raffi catches him with a shoulder under his arm to support him.

“Famous last words. Now, open the door so we can go in. You may be skinny but you’re getting heavier by the second.”

He doesn’t have the energy or breath to manage a quip, so he unlocks the door. His place is small and unkempt. The living room holds a couch that’s set right against the wall so he can see both the door and the windows. To the right is the tiny kitchen that doesn’t even have space for a table. He eats on his couch, using the coffee table in front as a collection zone for books and his mug of leftover coffee and the empty bottles of alcohol. To the left is the bedroom, which has a small closet and bathroom attached. The bedroom is dark thanks to the blackout curtains. While the place is not spotless, it’s by no means messy. That, he wouldn’t, couldn’t tolerate even in his state. Raffi helps him to the couch where he nearly collapses with a moan of pain, grateful to be at the end of his long journey home. It never seemed to take this long before. His eyes closed as he leans back into the couch, he hears Raffi walking around, looking for something.

“You got a medkit around here?”

“I’m fine,” he says automatically. “Or I will be. Thanks for helping me home.”

“I hear that get the hell out of here underneath that.” He hears the irritation creep back into her voice.

“No,” he begins, opening his eyes. “Honestly, I’m grateful for your help. Most people would’ve just turned a blind eye and let them beat me until the police stopped it. It’s just that, I’m fine. I’m okay. You don’t need to be here. You’ve done more than enough to help me.”

Raffi studies him for a long moment. Her gaze unsettles him as he feels her dissecting him, seeing the lonely, self-loathing man underneath. Truthfully, he is used to doing this alone and not just from the last seven months. No, this is a life-time habit that Starfleet had to work to make him push aside in favor of having teammates, a crew that would supposedly help you in your time of need. His father was non-existent and his mother busy trying to keep a roof over his head and food on the table. Having an adventurous, intelligent young boy hadn’t helped her either. She loved him, that he always knew but she was rarely home and very easily worked herself to an early grave. He was an orphan before he graduated. So, yes, he is used to this solitary life. His time in Starfleet had dampened the skills some but he never did find the camaraderie there that he’d hoped for, had been promised on the colorful brochures.

“Sure,” Raffi says. She pauses for a moment. “But then I’d be forever wondering if you were lying here dead because you choked on your own vomit. I don’t need another death on my conscience because I didn’t follow my instinct.”

He wishes that he weren’t still drunk and hurting otherwise he’d be able to better read her. Nevertheless, he hears her own hurt in her voice. He feels a connection, like she fits there with him, the other half of him. There’s nothing romantic about it either.

“So, med kit,” she asks.

Rios sighs.

“Bathroom. Bottom drawer,” he says.

“Right. Don’t move.” She gives him a smirk before disappearing into the bedroom to find the kit.

“Smartass.” He chuckles though quickly regrets it as it jars his ribs and makes his head worse. She’s back in a few minutes with his medkit. It’s not the standard home kit. She pulls out the tricorder, thankfully not commenting on its presence. He doesn’t like hospitals, especially lately as they tend to ask too many questions. It means his kit has more than the basics, which includes a tricorder. They’re not difficult to get, after all, not if you know the right people and have the money.

“A concussion and bruises. Pretty lucky, if you ask me.”

“I told you I was fine.”

“Yeah. Lift your shirt up. I wanna see these bruises before I even start to agree with your diagnosis, Dr. Rios.”

He would huff but breathing regularly hurts enough. Still, he fixes her with a questioning look.

“It’s not a come-on, Cris. I promise. I just want to see what the bruises look like and where they’re at.”

“Fine,” he grunts and lifts his shirt up, holding his winces as he feels the sharp pains from her prodding. She keeps silent as she inspects the reddening spots. Her cool hands feel good against the warm, inflamed bruises.

“I need you to lean forward. I want to see your back.”

“No.”

“Yes. Now lean forward. I need to check your back out.”

“Raf-,” he wheezes as he takes too deep of a breath. “What… what does this tell you… that a tricorder doesn’t?”

“Just checking. There are things that are better to visually verify. Now, lean forward so I can look at your back. You’ve probably got a few bootprints there to accompany the ones on your chest and stomach.”

“If I tell you I do because I can feel them will you leave it alone?”

“No, now stop being a baby. You were Starfleet. Remember your grueling PT days before you got to be an officer on a cozy little ship.”

Fuck, how’d she know that, he wonders.

“You’re not that mysterious,” she says to his deer in the headlights look. She doesn’t give him anymore warning before pulling him, surprisingly gently, forward. Still, he can’t help the gasp and subsequent coughing as his breath is taken away from the movement. Thankfully, she’s quick and before he knows it, she’s putting his shirt back down and letting him lean back against the couch. It does little for the breathing or the pain that’s spiked bad enough that his vision swims.

“Two partial and one full print,” she says. “And I would guess, though the tricorder can’t pick up on it, that your ribs are bruised, too.”

He nods, opting now to give up the pretense of composure and lays down on his side, trying to curl up against the pain. He might vomit again. If he’s lucky though, he thinks, he’ll pass out. His eyes closed, he doesn’t see the hypospray until he hears the familiar hiss. The pain slowly eases, fading to manageable levels as long as he doesn’t move a lot. That’s fine by him. The couch is very comfortable.

“Strangely,” Raffi says, “you have decent painkillers but no working dermal regenerator. You some kind of masochist?”

“Kit didn’t have a working one,” he says, not bothering to open his eyes yet. “Didn’t see a need to fix it.”

“How about the next time you decide to drunkenly pick a fight where you’re outnumbered four to one and you’re bleeding so badly and you don’t have the equipment to stop it until you can get help?”

“Then I’d die there, not here with no working dermal regenerator.” He doesn’t know why he never fixed it but he hasn’t even though this isn’t his first scuffle.

“So, you’re just going to live with the bruises?”

“I’ve dealt with worse.”

“But you don’t have to.”

“I know, but I will.”

She pauses, looking at him again with her piercing gaze. She’s trying to sort him out. Good luck, he thinks. He doesn’t even know himself anymore.

“Okay. Then what do you need?”

“Nothing more. Thank you. I’m just going to lay here until I feel like moving again.”

It’s her turn to sigh, contemplating his prone figure. He’s more relaxed than he was just a few minutes ago thanks to the painkiller. It’s nothing that’s prescription level but it is higher than the usual dose found in medkits. Determined to do something else, she wanders off to his small kitchen.

“What’s up with your replicator,” she calls out after tapping a few buttons and getting nothing more than an error message. “I can’t even get an icepack.”

“Broken. Check the freezer,” he answers, a lazy droll to his voice. He also doesn’t have the credits to get anything, not until his pension from Starfleet arrives at the end of the week. It wasn’t like he was going to starve anyway. There was plenty of food in the freezer, all courtesy of a charity for disabled veterans his annoying Starfleet psychiatrist had signed him up for as he was being discharged. He didn’t have the heart in him to turn the young woman away each week when she showed up with homemade meals so he just tossed them in the freezer. The small unit was stuffed. He’d grown up on replicated food. With it being cheap and easy, his mother resorted to it more often than not and this way, he could get his own food. Real food was a luxury he is unaccustomed to.

“You have one icepack.” Raffi comes back out into the living room with it. “Do you want it on your back or chest?”

Rios opens his eyes to see Raffi standing near the middle of the couch. He contemplates his options and the movement each would require.

“Chest,” he says, not wanting to move. His back hurts but that’s too much movement right now when he’s just getting comfortable. She wraps the pack in a towel and hands it to him. It’s a bit of a shock when he sticks it on the area of his chest with a full boot print, but it does feel good.

“Thanks,” he says.

Raffi nods, disappearing from his line of sight. Exhaustion takes over quickly as he feels more of the effects of the painkiller and icepack relieving the lingering aches and pains. He allows his eyes to slide shut, thinking that Raffi is leaving. A while later, he jolts awake, gasping as it startles his stiffening body. Someone is laying a blanket over him.

“Sorry,” Raffi says quietly.

“Raf? What are you still doing here?” Knowing that it’s her, the adrenaline fades quickly.

“Making sure that you don’t die.”

“Thanks. I’m fine. You should go.”

“Yeah. Okay.” She nods, looking at him hesitantly.

He closes his eyes and settles back into sleep. The blanket is the final straw for his tired body. Warm and free of pain, he finds himself unwilling to move for a while longer.


End file.
